


Funny Thing Fate

by Imagining_in_the_Margins



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Autistic Spencer Reid, Being Lost, Canon Autistic Character, Comfort, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, Fate, Fate & Destiny, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Love, Idiots in Love, Kissing, Love, POV Spencer Reid, Piggyback Rides, Protectiveness, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Friendship, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmates, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Washington D.C.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:08:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29011026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imagining_in_the_Margins/pseuds/Imagining_in_the_Margins
Summary: Autistic!Reader (Others will likely relate!). Reader is tipsy and lost in D.C. when she spots a man she thinks might be able to help.
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Reader, Spencer Reid/You
Comments: 3
Kudos: 71





	Funny Thing Fate

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning: Alcohol, crying, being/feeling “left behind,” piggy back ride (implied weight of Reader)

I used to believe in fate. Granted, it was never really the kind of fate I saw depicted in romance movies or the works of Sylvia Plath. I believed in fate because we existed. Human beings, standing on a rock hurtling through space with a consciousness and the ability to comprehend the astounding circumstances that led to our existence. Knowing all of that, it would be hard not to fall a little in love with the idea that everything happens for a reason. That each terrible thing, each second of suffering, is meant to bring us an equally incomprehensible joy.

But despite being happy with my life generally, I didn’t really believe in fate anymore. The idea made more sense when viewed as a coping mechanism for a cruel world; a way to survive devastating pain. It had become hard for me to believe that turning left instead of right was a predetermined decision that would change my life forever. At least, beyond the fact I would have slightly different memories of that night.

Most days, the walk home was just that: A walk home. Nothing particularly strange or memorable happened beyond the ordinary. It wasn’t a bad thing — ordinary things could be beautiful, too. I was just starting to enjoy them again, actually. And as lovely as that was to start seeing beauty in the world again, it didn’t change my new perspective.

Fate was just a tool to get by. So as I stood at a crossroads that night, trying to decide if I should just walk the normal path home, or take the longer route despite the late hour and weary eyes, I chose the former. It wasn’t fate, I told myself. It was just the logical decision.

It wasn’t fate. I didn’t believe in fate.

“Excuse me, sir?”

The tiny voice was almost drowned out by the dulcet sounds of car horns, drunken idiots, and terrible live music. But I heard her, with a slight waver in her voice and a slur to her words. It wasn’t the cadence or the timbre that drew me to her, it was something else. Something powerful. Something like the gravitational pull felt by a planet that had found its sun after eons of searching.

That was almost how I looked at her, too.

“Hm? Me?” I don’t know why I was acting unsure, considering she was doing her best to look at me while she spoke. Her eyes would dart to mine every few seconds, then fall back down to my feet. Don’t ask me why I looked down too, because I wasn’t sure myself. It felt like the right thing to do, to hopefully grant her the comfort of one less pair of prying male eyes. It was a Friday night in Washington, D.C. There were a lot of them.

“Yeah, can you help me?”

My hope to provide her with some reprieve failed to overpower my desire to look at her. From my peripherals I saw the way she moved, her hands wringing and shaking the anxiety from her body like one might treat unexpected rain.

You aren’t supposed to look at the sun directly, and even in my attempts to learn more of her face, I managed to abide by that very basic rule. I never looked her in the eyes for long, instead, I gave my brain the chance to acknowledge and enhance the fall of her hair or the crease in her dress.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’m lost,” she answered. That was all that she said, like a creature from a storybook or a princess from the legends. There was no other explanation provided. She was simply lost. And although my mind insisted on comparing the statement to every fable and romance, I resisted the urge to deify her.

“Okay. Where are you trying to go?”

“I don’t know,” she explained, and for the first time I noticed that one of her hands held an empty glass. She brought it to her face, and I felt compelled to follow it. Pressing the cool surface against her temple, she closed both of her eyes in a forced concentration. “I don’t remember.”

“I’m guessing you aren’t from around here.”

It was as obvious as the chatter of her teeth and the incessant bouncing of her feet. She still shook her head no.

“Are you with anyone?” I was afraid of the answer. Because if I were the average passerby, I would have abandoned this woman by now. From the way she shook and the distant, glazed over look in her eyes, most people would assume she was on some kind of drug. And, well, judging from the faint smell of fruit and vodka, or the empty bar glass in her hand, she was. But I wasn’t one to judge a person for their vices. Even if she was an addict, which I was getting the impression she wasn’t from her well-cared for clothing and lack of track marks, I would still want to help her. I didn’t want her to be alone.

Then, with an unmatched enthusiasm, the thought shot through her like a light switch turning on. “Yeah!” she shouted, and I had to laugh at the way her smile lit up her face.

Yeah, I thought, the sun was a good thing to compare her to.

“Who?”

“A party,” she whispered, trailing off between her sentences as they came to her slower then, “It’s all girls. For a wedding.”

“Oh, a bachelorette party?”

With a quick snap of her fingers, she nearly dropped her glass from her other hand. “Yeah! That!” She caught it before it could slip too far, but in doing so she seemed to remember something else. Slowly, the clouds returned to her face and caused the smile to fade.

“But I can’t find them,” she muttered, “I think they left without me.”

I’d never met the people she was with, but my heart was filled with an indescribable rage from the second she spoke. The logical side of my brain tried to remind me that all humans are fallible, that we all make mistakes and that she wasn’t exactly a reliable narrator, but at the same time I felt the pain in her voice, and I wanted to make it stop. I wanted to find the people responsible and drown them in it. To show them the fullest extent of the unfathomable suffering that stemmed from being alone. Forgotten. Lost.

Forcing those thoughts from my mind, I tried to better focus on the first issue at hand. As much I really didn’t want her to be returned to them if they had honestly abandoned her, that was still probably the safest place for her.

“Where did you get that drink from?” I pointed to her hand, nervous that a sudden move too close might scare her away like a deer in the headlights.

But she seemed like she’d forgotten it altogether. She inspected the cup with narrowed eyes before she shrugged, “I don’t know.”

It was becoming clear to me that a great part of her survival thus far was based on how pure she seemed. Within a matter of minutes, I felt myself falling into an endless chasm of butterflies and the kind of serenity that can usually only be found in a lazy Sunday morning.

“Can I see it?”

She looked down at the cup again before handing it to me. I tried my hardest not to touch her hand when she passed it over, but her fingers splayed out at the last second to brush over mine.

It was probably unintentional. I had a tendency to romanticize things.

The name of the bar was carefully etched in the glass, barely visible in the pool of colored light from the bar beside us. It wasn’t the same one.

“This is from Red Derby. Do you think they’ll be there?”

Both of her hands were free now, and her movements seemed to lead back to her face with increasing frequency. She chewed on the corner of her nail, and suddenly the faded remains of lipstick on her fingers and lips made a lot more sense.

“I don’t think so. If that’s where I came from, then they weren’t in there.” She was talking to herself more than me, but I was happy to be her sounding board.

“Can you call them?” I asked, feeling a little stupid to have not suggested it earlier. The longer the conversation went on, the tenser and restless she grew.

“I don’t know them that well. I don’t really know why they invited me, to be honest.” I recognized that tone, especially paired with those words. A creeping discomfort once again started brewing in my heart, and I tried to calm myself before I projected too much of my own suffering onto her.

But then she said it.

“Honestly I… I think I kind of annoyed them.”

My heart sunk to my stomach and my throat started to close at the thought. I knew that feeling all too well. I couldn’t wallow there long, though, out of the overwhelming fear that I would somehow make her night worse when I was meant to help her.

“Where are you staying?” I asked, earning her attention and distracting her from a less fortunate train of thought. “Maybe they’re waiting for you there.”

She tapped on her chin a couple of times, narrowing her eyes and looking around at the bright, unfamiliar landscape before she settled on another unsatisfying answer.

“I… don’t remember.”

“Do you have a key card for your room?”

It seemed like a simple question, and one she’d clearly already anticipated, because she wasted no time in answering, “No, it was in my jacket and I gave it to one of the girls because she was cold.”

“We can probably still get you a replacement one at the hotel,” I thought aloud to myself and the surprisingly attentive audience she’d become, “Is there someone else you can call and ask where you’re staying?”

Her response was equally simple; she displayed her phone to me just in time to click the on button, which only allowed a flashing battery indicator before returning to black. Fueled by my own awkward anxiety and a genuine sympathy for the poor woman’s predicament, I couldn’t stop myself from voicing the obvious.

“Wow. You are having a rough night.”

“Can you help me?” she asked again. This time the words felt even more compelling, although I couldn’t tell if anything had actually changed. Because I was still there, staring at her as streetlights danced in those eyes that were far too expressive for a world as cruel as this one, and I couldn’t help but acknowledge the feeling I’d been fighting since the moment I saw her. That damned treacherous thought still tugging on my heart to try and lead me forward.

We were meant to be here together.

I’d questioned fate and it responded the only way it could prove its existence to the skeptic. It sent the only thing I wouldn’t be able to deny. It sent her.

“How long have you been looking for them?” I asked finally.

She didn’t seem bothered by my reverie, if she even noticed it at all, because she just shrugged as she said, “I don’t know, thirty minutes?”

“Well, a group of drunk women can only go so far. Why don’t we check out the other bars around the Red Derby?”

The answer she gave was different than what I expected, although I’m not really sure what that might have looked like, either. But when her arms shot up to excitedly grab at the air and her eyes darted to mine just as quickly, I was almost too lost in her brilliance to hear the way her pitch jumped.

“Really? You’ll help me?” she breathlessly cried into the busy space around us that I’d almost forgotten.

Through a similarly strained laugh, I scratched the back of my neck and took my turn dodging the emotions filling her eyes and explained, “Well, I’m not going to just… leave you here.”

Her hands in the air released all the tension and dropped the nothingness in her grip, taking on wide spread fingers and fervently waving in the space between us. And like a wind-up toy in a child’s hands, I felt my own excitement build with the energy she offered to the night.

“Wow, thank you!” she blurted out with eyes clenched shut and a smile open wide, “Thank you so much!”

“You’re welcome,” I answered without even the faintest hint of insincerity. With brows bowed and a smile that seemed dull when compared to the joy radiating off of her. I held tightly to the glass she’d given me as if it were a proxy for her hand as I finally concluded, “Okay, so, we need to head… this way.”

She didn’t ask any questions before she followed me. She walked just far enough away that our arms couldn’t quite brush against one another, but close enough that I could see every fidget of her fingers pressed together over her heart.

“What’s your name, by the way?” she blurted out after a few minutes of silence. I turned to her, somehow still unconvinced that she was talking to me. But what I found at the end of the movement was the sight of her, trying to look me in the eyes but mostly staring at the locks of hair that masked my forehead.

“Oh! I’m Spencer.” It almost felt like a silly question, like we should somehow already have that information. So obvious, in fact, that I didn’t think about asking for her name.

“That’s a nice name,” she thought aloud before responding even in the absence of the question, “I’m (y/n).”

Still caught up in just how formal the exchange seemed compared to our strange meeting, I laughed as I said, “That’s a nice name, too.”

“How do you know which way to go?”

“I’ve lived here for a while now. I also look at a lot of maps for my job.”

Her head tilted as she pondered the thought and something else. Tension built over her cheeks through the bridge of her nose before she sighed. “That’s so lucky. I’m very bad at directions. I don’t like new places.”

“That’s exactly why I like learning about maps!” I excitedly shot back, earning her interest and a fleeting second of eye contact before I explained, “Nothing ever really feels that new that way.”

But that was a lie. A lot of things felt new to me. In fact, my own home felt new to me some days. Most days, really. After everything I’ve been through, it almost felt like it was the complete opposite— that nothing was the same. Everything and everyone I loved seemed to change every time I saw them. They continued to exist without me, leaving me stagnant in a world that was passing me by.

Nothing felt comforting. Nothing felt like home.

And then she touched me. One small hand took hold of the sleeve of the jacket and with it, she also stole my heart. When I remembered the chipped nail polish and smeared lipstick, I found myself hoping they would leave a trace on the wool. Anything to remind myself that she was real when the time came for her to let go.

“Are you cold?” I asked when I saw her shaking.

“No. I feel pretty warm, actually.” There was no dishonesty in her words. I’m sure that to her, the bone-chilling wind that whipped between the buildings felt refreshing after being piled in a room with people and their puffy coats.

“Okay, do you promise not to get mad at me?”

She gave an honest albeit confused, “No,” followed by an innocent and curious, “What are you going to do?” 

I was afraid to tell her, but also afraid to leave her without an answer. The stalemate between the devil and angel on my shoulders resulted in the two of us coming to a stop on the sidewalk. I didn’t even need to look to know she was going to follow my lead. That blatant naive trust she held in me also solidified my confidence that my next actions would be forgiven.

Her eyes were wide and cautious as I took off my satchel and jacket, and I watched them bounce along all the different movements like she could actually read them with the same proficiency as I might consume Dostoevsky. Yet she didn’t stop me, even when the fabric was thrown over her shoulders.

Conversely, she stayed still as a statue as she cried, “Hey! I just said I was warm!” 

Something told me, or perhaps I just hoped too intensely, that the flushing of her face wasn’t because she felt angry or warm.

“Alcohol lowers your core temperature. It is cold, you just don’t feel it,” I explained.

“Oh. Like a fever?”

“Yeah, just the opposite.”

That was all it took. She blinked her eyes a few more times while she inspected the way it looked draped over her frame instead of mine. Her fingers peeked out to pull it closer, and I realized I’d never been so jealous of fabric in my life.

“Aren’t you cold now?”

The question caught me off guard. Because it wasn’t the weather that made my hands tremble. I was too much of a coward to tell her the real reason.

“A little,” I lied with a shrug, “We can switch back and forth.”

She accepted the compromise with a healthy dose of hesitance. I think she knew I wouldn’t let her give me the coat back until she was safely secured under appropriate conditions. Interestingly, though, that wasn’t her primary concern. As she shifted back and forth on her feet and shoved her hands through the sleeves that were much longer than her arms, she seemed more worried about something else.

Splaying her fingers out in front of her, she presented empty palms to me when she mumbled, “I don’t have anything to hold on to now.”

It was unlike the displays I’d seen before. This time, her words were given through pouted lips and eyes only slightly off center from my face. And unlike my usual interactions with women, I wasn’t confused. I felt her intentions so strongly that it almost felt like she was the first person to ever greet me with my native tongue.

“Here,” I said, offering her my arm and a smile I would dare describe as cheeky. It took her a second to double check my motives, but when she did move, there was no hesitation. She wrapped her arm around mine and stepped closer to me. Although she underestimated her lack of coordination from the alcohol, neither of us seemed to mind the way our shoulders bumped together.

“How’s that?” I asked before I looked at her. If I had looked, however, I would have seen her answer in the form of a shy smile on her face.

“It’s okay,” she said. I kept my commentary to myself, not wanting to scare her with my enthusiasm. But again, something told me that we both understood that the word “okay” meant something different to us.

Maybe that language was what made the silence between us so comfortable. As we perused streets that I was only vaguely familiar with, I never once found myself focusing on the sounds of the city. It was like I could only hear her breath and the way my heart would change its rhythm in response. Tired legs didn’t tremble under the exhaustion of the case that felt so far behind.

It was easy to be around her, even when her grip was unrelenting and her steps were clumsy. I found myself wondering if this was how it was supposed to be. How it was for everyone else that had the audacity to treat us like we were the ones missing out. But then again, I understood the downsides to our state by the time we’d walked out of the third attempted bar.

“So, apparently your friends are much quicker and much drunker than I anticipated.” I sighed, glancing down at my phone that read 1:21AM. They couldn’t stay out much later; last call should be within the next hour. Unfortunately, that also meant it would be harder to get into the bars. You can only run up a tab so quickly.

While I was distracted about bar business practices and the annoying tendency of time’s passage, I failed to notice the soft sniffling coming from the woman still on my arm. Once I heard it, the guilt hit me hard enough to bruise. But that pain was nothing compared to what followed. 

“D-Do you think…” She paused with a hiccup that would have been cute if not for the tears. She covered her face with her hands still buried under my jacket sleeves, but the image of her crying was already burned in my memory.

“Do you think they forgot about me?”

“Hey, hey, please don’t cry!” I let my arm slip from hers just so I could hold her better. But before my arms wrapped around her, I realized my mistake. I’d abandoned the only embrace I knew she was comfortable with and left us both colder as a result. My words didn’t feel like enough, but I gave her a few more, anyway. “It’s going to be okay.”

“They forgot about me and I’m going to be all alone!” 

“You’re not going to be alone,” I whispered, wishing that I could look into her eyes that had screwed shut. I did the only other thing I could think to do, which was to place a heavy hand on her shoulder still covered in familiar fabric and rubbing my thumb against her collarbone.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said in the hope that she would recognize it as a promise. I think she did, if my theory about reading each other’s minds was in any way accurate. Because her breath left her, stuttered and powerful to match her hands that shook off the anxiety exactly as they had before. Her eyelids stayed clenched shut as she continued that process until the shaking was nothing but a gentle tremor of hands that I almost let myself hold.

I almost held her, but I was too late. Before I could do anything, she’d rolled into my arms like a weary traveler would fall into their bed after they’d finally found their way home. She didn’t hug me, necessarily, but she held me, nonetheless. Her heart and her lungs worked easier when they felt me, and I couldn’t resist the urge to pull her closer just to see if my arms could grant her the rest she so desperately needed.

I could say that I hugged her, but it felt like more than that. There was pressure of my arms wrapped around her, but it just wasn’t the same. And when I buried my face in her hair and felt how small the world could seem, I would be doing a disservice by calling the moment something so simple.

The rest it provided us was necessary, and I felt our bodies exchange the little energy we had to reach a happy equilibrium the longer we stayed. Once we did reach the moment where tears stalled and cheeks returned to their normal color, we were both able to think clearer.

“How about we go somewhere you can charge your phone and we’ll get you a snack? Then we can hopefully call someone else to help.”

I felt her nod more than I heard whatever muffled response she gave. And with the heaviest heart, I released her from my arms. She didn’t go too far. Our arms never broke apart, weaving together in the locked pattern from before. In fact, if I hadn’t spent the last indeterminate period of time lost in an alternate universe of daydreams, I wouldn’t have believed the interlude even happened. That was how fast we went back to how we were before, marching through the city on our quest to her happy ending.

But what noble quest doesn’t have a few hiccups along the way?

“Spencer, my feet hurt,” she whined from my side after a few blocks. Her lips were pursed again as she stared through narrowed eyes at the ballet flats on her feet. “Can I take my shoes off?”

“No, sorry, there are too many things on the ground that could hurt you.”

“Oh. Okay,” she sighed. Her defeat was obvious but well-taken. I wondered if it was because she saw me as some kind of authority or if it was because she just trusted me to give her the truth. Either way, I had to ask for a different reason.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yeah,” she answered without pause. Like it should have been obvious. That alone made me smile, which really helped me gather enough confidence to ask my follow up question.

“Do you want me to carry you?”

For the first time of the night, her eyes shot to mine so directly that I could almost see the way her pupils blew wide at the mention. She jumped back while at the same time holding me tighter, resulting in the two of us only barely escaping the disaster of running into another person on the sidewalk. But I couldn’t care about any of that when her voice jumped in volume and pitch as she shouted, “Yeah!”

“Okay, get on my back,” I laughed, trying to pry myself away from her and simultaneously hating myself for it. I just had to remind myself that it was for the better. That this way, I would know exactly how it felt for her arms to be around me.

It was exactly as wonderful as I imagined. Her hands clasped together as they hung in front of me like a talisman to ward anything bad away from my heart. The same heart with a varying rhythm that was feeling increasingly like a song specifically for her.

“You’re warm,” she mumbled in the sleepiest voice yet.

“Only because of your body heat. It’s all you.”

“You’re comfy,” she sighed again, nuzzling and shifting closer before barely managing to mutter, “I’m sleepy.”

I wanted to correct her on just how wrong she was; to explain just how bony and awkward my body was. I wanted to tell her that the two of us were opposite ends of the spectrum when it came to things that should be called home. But I also heard the way her breath evened out and her hands relaxed, and I decided that it was not a time for negativity. There were better things to think about.

“Hang in there a little bit longer. We’re almost there.”

But that bitter truth, that she might be leaving me soon, consumed me when I lost the sound of her voice. As much as I tried to cling to the moment, I could feel her slipping from my grasp the same way she would leave my life to return to the fairy tale land she came from.

“You still awake up there, little one?” I asked as a familiar 24-hour diner came into view. It felt less like a comforting respite and more like a blaring exit sign that I was obligated to escort her through.

“If I say no do I get to stay?” she returned, speaking with a similar stubbornness to stay exactly where we were.

But we couldn’t. We both knew that. So I put her down on unsteady feet and made a point not to meet her eyes. I was afraid that if I did, I might never find my way out again.

The diner was the same as always, although it felt different in her company. Part of me was almost anxious to share one of my favorite places with her, even though I knew she’d never really come back. Or at least, I figured she lived far enough away that it wouldn’t be worth the trip.

She was just passing through. Staining my memories with things I wished I could feel again. Reminding me of just how simple things are when I’m with someone that speaks the same lonely language. It was strange to think of her like that, though, because when I looked at her all I could see was an overwhelming beauty.

Sticky syrup dripped from her fork onto her hand, and I watched as she jumped at the sensation. But once she saw the sugary liquid, she made the most wonderful sound. Her giggles were muffled by her lips as she tried to clean her hand with a mouth just as tainted by sweetness. I wondered what her life must have been like, to make her respond that way. To see a mess and make the most of it.

“Can I ask you a question?” I blurted out with only a little remorse.

“Maybe.”

“Why did you ask me for help?”

There was a pause, filled with thoughts of how charming it was that she rocked her head like a metronome to show how her brain bounced between ideas. She ended the pattern with a shrug and an answer so simple I wasn’t sure how to handle it.

“You looked nice,” she said. That was it.

And no matter how hard I tried to fight my own insecurity and need for praise, I still found the word slipping from my lips before I could control it. 

“How?”

How could she look at me and see anything resembling something good? My life had been nothing but a compilation of failures and mistakes. There was so much blood on my hands that I swore my skin had changed shade to hide the color of my own veins. I fought every silver backed piece of glass to try and escape the images they showed me. So how could she look at me and think that I was the one who would protect her when time after time, I couldn’t even protect myself?

She didn’t rock that time. She didn’t move at all. With slow blinking eyes and a confident monotone, she explained, “I don’t know. I just saw you and you looked… nice.”

I didn’t know how to respond, and I’m glad that I didn’t, because she wasn’t done turning me into a broken mess of a man in her hands. She had more to say, and it was equally heart-wrenching and showed no concern for how it would challenge everything I’d ever thought about myself.

“I knew that I would be safe with you,” she said.

Safe, I thought, What a wonderful thing to be.

But reality came calling, in the form of a gentle, melodious chiming from the phone resting between us. A physical barrier between our hands to remind me that she was meant to be somewhere else.

“Hello?” she answered, and I tried to ignore the observation that she also sounded disappointed by the interruption.

“I’m not at the hotel. I couldn’t remember which one it was,” she explained, bored and monotone while continuing to poke at her food. “I’m at a cafe with Spencer.”

Then, visibly frustrated, she huffed, “He’s not a stranger. He’s Spencer.”

My stifled laughter drew her eyes back to me, and she shook her head like the person on the other end had any reason to understand. And we just kept looking at each other, with smiles stretching wider and laughter growing louder until she had to speak again.

“I don’t know how to get there. I don’t know where that is. Can you just tell Spencer?” Then, after another brief pause, she held the phone out to me. “Okay. She wants to talk to you.”

Thankfully, I’d been trained on how to respond to a phone call with a distressed parent or caregiver.

“Hi, this is Supervisory Special Agent Dr. Reid.”

Immediately, I was met with an overwhelming sound of relief, which was quickly followed by an exasperated, “Oh, thank god, you’re a cop.”

“Close enough. Where should I take her?”

And I listened. I paid attention to the voice on the other end of the phone while the very kind woman directed me to the hotel. But at the same time, I couldn’t help but take in the vision on the other side of the table. Because she was still bouncing in the booth, with laughter and hands moving more than others’ would, but never too much. She just seemed so happy, so full of life and… love.

“Thank you so much for helping her. I know she’s a handful,” I heard through my overtly romantic ideals, “We thought she went back to the hotel, but we just got here and saw she wasn’t here.”

“It’s alright.”

Is it? She’s leaving.

“I’ll bring her back to you now. Oh! And you’ll have to meet us in the lobby. Whoever had her jacket has her keycard, too.”

“Thank you! We’ll see you soon!”

Is it alright? my mind repeated again, She’s leaving.

There is a moment in every story just before it ends where the audience is given time to breathe, settle, and reflect. It used to be one of my favorite periods when reading because there was so much potential. But when the hotel was finally in sight and I saw a woman, who I correctly assumed to be her friend, break into a sprint towards us despite high heels and inebriation, I felt something I hadn’t expected.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t ready for the story to end.

“(Y/n)! Thank god you’re alright!”

“Hi. Sorry I got lost,” she replied in the monotone that had already become familiar. Familiar enough, in fact, that I was convinced I could register even the slightest changes. But that was a silly, naive thing to think. As an experienced profiler, I knew how easy it is to project our own desires onto another, and that someone as honest as her would be harder to read.

So why was it that when she turned back to me and our eyes met for that brief millisecond before they fell back to the ground, I saw more regret than relief? 

“It’s okay sweetheart, let’s just go inside and get you to your room so you can get some sleep.”

Just like that, she was almost swept away past locked doors. Tucked away in her tower like the fairy tale I’d come to love.

But then her heels stuck to the ground, and with a burst of confidence and persistence, she turned to her friend and urged, “Can I have a minute with Spencer please? And also my keycard.”

“S-Sure,” the woman responded, glancing back at me with knitted brows and a brief pout. After a little bit of worrying, she only sighed, “Sorry. Of course. And again, thank you so much Dr. Reid. I really appreciate all your help.”

“Not a problem at all. It was my pleasure.”

Even that was an understatement. My gratitude only grew when she found her way back to me, somehow simultaneously both shy and sure. The former must have won out in the end, because once her feet stopped, her lips seemed equally stuck in place.

“Looks like they didn’t forget about you,” I offered to break the ice that had formed so quickly. To ease the chill that had come with her handing my jacket back.

“No, I guess not,” she mumbled sadly. I didn’t like the sound, and I especially didn’t like how her rocking and shaking from when I’d met her had not only returned, but worsened. The inertia from the movement carried over to me, resulting in my hand once again reaching out to her.

That time when I touched her shoulder, her cheek chased closely behind, pressing against the back of my hand. And although I wanted to be happy about the contact, it was hard when her mouth was curled into a frown.

“What’s wrong?”

Quietly and with a still trembling voice, she whispered, “I know that I’m back with my friends and I know that I’m not alone but… What about you?”

“What about me?”

She paused, straightening her back and eyeing me like the answer should have been obvious. I supposed it was, but she said it, nonetheless.

“Won’t you be alone?”

I had no argument to make. I could lie to make her feel better, but something told me that she would know. She would read me just as we had done throughout the night. Because that clever, peculiar, beautiful woman that I’d guarded throughout the night was the only other person I’d ever met that never felt like a stranger.

I couldn’t lie to her. I didn’t even want to.

“Yeah, I guess so,” I agreed, and when I saw the tears in her eyes, I blinked to try and prevent my own from forming. It wasn’t a lie, but a hopeful wish when I said, “I’ll be okay, though.”

I almost challenged myself again. I almost wondered if I even believed what I said. I almost thought about the different ways this night would end, and if any of the likely options were anything close to resembling okay. I cursed myself for not being grateful I’d had these moments at all. For not doing enough to enjoy her company while she was still there.

There were so many things that I almost did. The same couldn’t be said for her.

It wasn’t until her palms pressed against my cheeks that I realized I’d never really felt her skin on mine. I hadn’t noticed just how soft she was, and how the smoothness contrasted the clumsy way she moved. But there was no mishap or mismeasurement when her lips found mine. My eyes were already shut and my arms open, but she was the one to pull me closer. She spoke with her whole body that practically bounced with the glee that she poured into all the places our skin touched.

I couldn’t tell if the frantic beating in my chest was from my own heart or hers, but the rhythm it created was so delirium-inducing that by the time she pulled away from me, I was drunk with my desire to have her for just a second longer. I couldn’t breathe anymore, knowing what else I could be doing to use up the air left in my lungs.

“If you ever don’t want to be alone, you should call me,” she said with a casual shrug, as if she hadn’t just changed my life forever. “I promise I’ll keep my phone charged this time.”

Her hands had already slipped away before I found my voice, although she only took a few steps in retreat.

“Thanks. I will call you,” I said as clearly as I could through the scratchy dryness of my throat still bursting with heavy breaths.

She looked at me, one last time meeting my eyes. I didn’t have to wonder what she saw, because I knew it was just a reflection of the dreaminess depicted in her own.

“Goodnight, Spencer,” she spoke through a solemn smile.

“Goodnight, (y/n).”

It was only inevitable. Any story that someone like me would take part in always had to end this way. With tragedy, regret, and memories that couldn’t be forgotten through sheer force of will. I was no longer looking at the crease of her clothing or the strands of her hair and how they arranged themselves. I saw her all at once, as a woman who had picked me from a crowd.

The person who chose me when there was so much to lose, because she knew that she would be safe in my arms.

Then, with a spark of something that certainly didn’t feel like genius, I realized that… this wasn’t a fairy tale nor a legend. While she was whimsical and extraordinary, the world around us was not. It was perfectly average in every way. And I knew how to handle average.

I didn’t need fate. I had everything I needed to write the happily ever after of this story. Or, better yet, postpone the end for as long as we needed.

That soft swooshing of music resonated through the foyer, followed by her confused gasp and my shaky breath. Then she smiled, pulling her phone from her pocket and answering the call.

“Hey,” I said before she had a chance.

“Hi,” she happily replied.

“Does that offer still stand?”


End file.
